


Interlude In Karachi

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Moriarty's Web, On the Run, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes Misses John Watson, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Karachi climate is not agreeing with him. </p><p>It’s no matter; he won’t be stopping long. In truth, he’s not entirely sure what he is doing here at all. Perhaps he is trying to delay the inevitable, attempting to prepare himself for the daunting task ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude In Karachi

**Author's Note:**

> A Brief exploration of the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, set just after Sherlock fakes his death in The Reichenbach Fall. Whilst there is sexual content, there's definitely no romantic attachment involved. Something I wrote a long time ago, it's a bit different to my usual stuff, then again, maybe not.

 

 

The Karachi climate is not agreeing with him.

 

It’s only February, and whilst he’s told that the weather is still relatively mild for this part of the world, it’s unseasonably humid. He never did like the heat, accustomed to the constant drizzle of London, and; having just come from a particularly arctic European winter, he finds it uncomfortable.

 

It’s no matter; he won’t be stopping long. In truth, he’s not entirely sure what he is doing here at all. Perhaps he is trying to delay the inevitable, attempting to prepare himself for the daunting task ahead.

 

He feels restless; untethered.

 

The difference between time zones is keeping him awake, despite the fact that he really should be sleeping, and he stares at the ceiling with mild disinterest as she caresses his hip.

 

Her hand slips beneath his waistband.

 

“I’m not remotely interested in you, you do realise that?” He comments to the room, his only reaction.

 

“I know,” she replies honestly, but her hand is still roaming with lazy intent.

 

“You’re _really_ not my type,” he continues without missing a beat, but he makes no move to stop her.

 

They fall back into silence for a while, and he thinks that he really should be annoyed about this, but he isn’t.

 

“I’m gay,” he adds, reiterating his point in amusement now, and she laughs; relaxed.

 

“As am I.”

 

He fucks her anyway.

 

Missionary position, unadventurous, certainly by her standards, but he needs the release, and she’s there, so why not? It’s less about gender and more about the primal need to just fuck something, to push into her, warm and tight, without finesse and without thinking.

 

It’s just transport, and it’s certainly _not_ what he likes, but they make do.

 

He’s rough and impersonal, not giving a rat’s arse whether she enjoys it or not, but typically; she does anyway.

 

She’s wanted him for some time; although for the life of him he can’t figure out why, perhaps that’s why he likes her. He wonders if this is anything like she imagined it; probably not.

 

“Oh that _is_ interesting,” she observes gleefully, “So you _have_ done this before.”

 

“Shut up,” He grinds out as he thrusts into her. She thankfully keeps her thoughts to herself after that, and lets him take charge, which is ironic, for a dominatrix.

 

It’s a new side of her that he’s seeing, and perhaps a more honest one at that. She puts on a hell of a show, but then she is a professional, it’s in her job description to be unconventional; exotic. Perhaps she finds a sort of novel pleasure in a simpler, more ordinary approach.

 

He understands what she is, so she can shed her persona for a while. He may not like her all that much when it comes down to it, but he supposes her intellect is fairly attractive in its own right. But then…so was Moriarty’s, and he won’t be sleeping with _him_ anytime soon.

 

She achieves orgasm, which surprises him, but it’s not like she would bother to fake it, she’d never fool him, plus she knows that he doesn’t particularly care either way.

 

He’s only really having sex with her out of convenience, and because she wanted to. Perhaps he needed the company. It’s a stay of execution really.

 

It’s an interesting sort of plot twist in his sexual history, but not likely one to provoke a repeat performance.

 

He pants lightly, face mashed into her left shoulder, with most of his weight over her. It was good, and she knows it, he can read her surprise in the lines of her body, in the absence of tension.

 

She’s very pleased with herself, but she’s not delusional, they both know that she didn’t exactly seduce him.

 

He doesn’t regret it, but he certainly wouldn’t do it again, nor does he care anymore for her now than he did an hour ago.

 

She curls up with him, afterward, and he mostly lets her because he can’t be bothered getting rid of her, and maybe a tiny bit because having a warm body to sleep next to isn’t something he’s had in quite a while.

 

“You’re out of your depth here,” she informs him seriously, with legitimate concern, “You’re hardly an angel, but they’re going to make mince-meat out of you.”

 

He bristles; offended, and rolls onto his back, but even _he_ can admit that there’s undeniably some truth in her words.

 

“You’re one to talk, need I remind you of the last time we crossed paths?”

 

“You mean when you swooped in to rescue me at the last second, single handedly slaughtered all of my executioners so that I didn’t even have to lift a finger, and then I left you stranded in the desert without your clothes?”

 

He smirks at the memory.

 

“Very impressive by the way, you do know how to spoil a girl.”

 

In reality she’d been terrified and in shock, but he lets that slide.

 

“You’re forgetting the part where you played an elaborate game, antagonising dozens of powerful people, gambled your only protection with a world renowned detective, subsequently _lost_ , and didn’t even last 6 months before being captured and sentenced to death.”

 

“Touché.”

 

But the friendly atmosphere slowly dissipates, and she frowns; studying him closely. Irene is afraid for him, he can tell.

 

“Seriously though, what’s your angle? You’ll never make it out alive.”

 

“I’m counting on it.”

 

The hand carding through his curls freezes momentarily and she tries to conceal her distress, but her body reacts before her mind can prevent the slip.

 

She doesn’t want him to die.

 

“How can you say that?” She lowers the timbre of her voice gently. She is aiming for unaffected, but she’s blatantly upset by his new mindset.

 

He shrugs.

 

“I make good on my promises.”

 

“A promise made to whom?” She prompts, thinking that she knows the answer already, but it’s in her nature to make him say it regardless.

 

“To John. I promised not to lie to him about anything important, and; to Jim,” he relishes the look of poorly concealed shock on her face, a moment of doubt; “I owe him a handshake.”

 

They had been his own words afterall;

 

_‘You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you.’_

The anger in him clearly makes her uneasy, but he thinks that she objectively finds this change in him fascinating, even if it makes her sad. They are alike in this way.

 

She tries to convince him to stay here, with her, and he knows that she loves him, doesn’t want him to self-destruct, because it would be such a waste.

 

And it _is_ , it is a terrible waste, but he’d rather saw off his own foot than stay here with her and her mind games forever. Plus if he can ever even entertain the thought of seeing John again; he has to do this.

 

Maybe he won’t die; maybe he will get the chance to break those promises.

 

She disapproves, but she won’t try to stop him, she knows better than that. His mind is made up and she respects that.

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“Don’t call me that,” he growls, only just managing to stop himself from furtively scanning the room instinctively; they’re alone, he knows that.

 

He never feels safe anymore.

 

She huffs in annoyance,

 

“Then what _should_ I call you, _darling_?” She purrs.

 

“Sigurdsson; James.”

 

“Ooh, Mr Bond,” she teases playfully.

 

“Stop that,” he snaps with a razor edge, because he understood that reference, and it _hurts_. He’d been subjected to that brand of popular culture on a weekly basis.

 

His flatmate was a fan.

 

She seems to realise the connotations of his reaction, because her face goes strangely blank as she tries not to feel sorry for him.

 

She looks like she wants to say something, but something in his face silences her. It’s too late, about 3 weeks too late, what’s done is done, the wheels of the plan already put in motion, and he has a flight to catch in four hours, so he has to rest.

 

He can’t afford to dwell on what he’s lost, the scope of it would consume him, blur his focus.

 

She stays awake with her head on his chest, watching over him. It is the last friendly touch he will know for a very long time, maybe even for the rest of his life.

 

He’s a dead man walking.

 

Irene Adler is a sly and prickly woman, but he supposes they are very much alike, two sides of the same coin. And although she’s deceitful, he wouldn’t even trust her with his dry-cleaning; it’s comforting to have someone who understands the situation without needing to be told. Someone who isn’t a stuffy and controlling family member or an obsessive criminal mastermind hell bent on his destruction.

 

Someone who knows what he is going through; what he will have to face, how much he will suffer.

 

Irene Adler is a dominatrix into power-plays and misbehaving, who likes to bat people around like a cat does its prey, with claws just as sharp.

 

Sherlock respects her.

 

He trusts that she will keep his secret, as he has kept hers.

 

 


End file.
